But if something went wrong last night, it hasn’t made it onto chinaSMACK yet. I take another sip of strong, black coffee. Not as good as the stuff Harrison served up the other day, which is one of the problems with hanging out around rich people—they always have better stuff than I do. Or maybe that’s why I hang out around them. I glance over at the designer clothes heaped on this armchair that I never actually sit on—it’s just where I throw clothes. They’re wrinkled, and I can smell the cigarette smoke on them from here. Discarded lizard skins. I drink more coffee. At least I’m not hungover, just tired and headachy and dry-eyed from all the smoke and the noise and not enough sleep. But I’m still feeling all mature for not doing anything totally stupid last night. That is, until my iPhone rings. “Vicky Huang. I have Mr. Sidney Cao for you.”
